


Death Is Not So Bad

by ingoldamn



Series: Silmarillion Character Studies [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angsty Stuff, F/M, Gen, I suppose, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Violence, Unrequited Love, anyway, celegorm being an insensitive dick, did you come here for a happy ending, everyone dies, feanorions being dicks, i have no idea how to tag this, like seriously, sorry - Freeform, take a walk through celegorm's mind, that was a little mean, this is silm fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:03:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3620850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingoldamn/pseuds/ingoldamn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it goes like this: Tyelkormo looks at his littlebrother – not the youngest, mind you, no, Ambarussa were only ever happy with each other – no, Tyelkormo looks at Curvo and he sees ice and determination, and he cannot help but smile, because no one truly understands his littlebrother. They all think Curvo is like their father; Curufinwë Atarinkë, Curufinwë Fëanaró, what is the difference, people say. Is there a difference, they ask. And Tyelkormo laughs to himself and pets Húan and says nothing, but thinks that it is strange how people misunderstand his littlebrother. Their father was fire and passion and his spirit was made of flames, so hot they burned his body to ash when he died. Curvo is not thus. Curvo is ice and arrogance and a razor-sharp wit and cunning and a thousand scheming plans, and he is, without a doubt, Tyelkormo’s favourite brother. Manwë alone knows why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Is Not So Bad

**Author's Note:**

> uhm I fucked up the timeline - I can't quite remember when the nirnaeth arnoediad takes place but seriously just roll with it alright
> 
> also first tolkien fic ever, i think? like this is an accomplishment
> 
> [tumblr](http://fratboy-of-orome.tumblr.com)

Sometimes it goes like this: Tyelkormo looks at his littlebrother – not the youngest, mind you, no, Ambarussa were only ever happy with each other – no, Tyelkormo looks at Curvo and he sees ice and determination, and he cannot help but smile, because no one truly understands his littlebrother. They all think Curvo is like their father; Curufinwë Atarinkë, Curufinwë Fëanaró, what is the difference, people say. Is there a difference, they ask. And Tyelkormo laughs to himself and pets Húan and says nothing, but thinks that it is strange how people misunderstand his littlebrother. Their father was fire and passion and his spirit was made of flames, so hot they burned his body to ash when he died. Curvo is not thus. Curvo is ice and arrogance and a razor-sharp wit and cunning and a thousand scheming plans, and he is, without a doubt, Tyelkormo’s favourite brother. Manwë alone knows why.

Perhaps it is because Tyelkormo has no sense of self-preservation and Curvo is the only one who sees it. In the blessed days of his early childhood, long before kinslayings and oaths were something Tyelkormo ever even thought to concern himself with, he would spend his days in the forests, sometimes alone, but most often accompanied by Oromë (no, Tyelkormo does not know what he did to become the favourite of a Vala, but it is both his proudest accomplishment and his greatest shame – the disappointed resignation in Oromë’s dark eyes, last time they spoke, will forever haunt his nightmares). Oromë used to look after him, Tyelkormo knows, Oromë saved his life many times, when his hasty temper might have forced him to do foolish things (like wrestle a boar).

But in Middle-Earth there is no Oromë with strong arms and kind eyes to stop him. Instead there is his clever littlebrother (the Crafty, they call him, and Tyelkormo laughs because these people understands so little about his brother and yet they see so much). Clever, little Curvo, with his raven’s wing hair and his frosty, blue eyes and the sharp nose and the voice that sometimes makes him seem more like their father than it probably should. His littlebrother with the nimble fingers and the sharp mind.

So perhaps, in the end, it is not that strange that Curvo is Tyelkormo’s favourite, considering how often Curvo is there to save him – even when Tyelkormo is foolish enough to fall in love with the fair Lúthien and attempt to force her to marry him (he loses Húan to her, and he can barely even blame the dog).

After the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, they flee, even though every instinct in Tyelkormo screams at him to stay where he is, not to give in. But the sons of Fëanaró run for their lives and for many years they hide in Ossiriand, the Silmarils hidden from their eyes.

Until Lúthien and her beloved Beren die at last, and their son, Dior Eluchíl, becomes the king of Doriath. They say, he wears a Silmaril around his neck. Shows it to all who visit him. Tyelkormo imagines that Dior boasts of it, of how he has beaten the sons of Fëanaró.

The Vow stirs again, when the rumours reach them. They all feel it in their hearts. Tyelkormo and Curvo exchange glances, and smile, because it is time, at last, to fulfill the Vow. The others try to ignore it and Tyelkormo scoffs at them, thinking them ever so pathetic.

Nelyafinwë is grieving still, though Tyelkormo’s sympathy is fast dwindling, along with his patience – yes, he is sad that their cousin is dead as well, truly, but why on earth Nelyafinwë insists on mourning Findekáno even hundreds of years after his death will forever be a mystery to Tyelkormo (not that he isn’t still mourning Húan, but really, that grief is his business, no one else’s – he doesn’t flaunt his sorrow like Nelyafinwë does – Nelyafinwë Maitimo; the name seems almost a mockery, now that Nelyo’s face is ruined for all time, perhaps what he truly mourns is the loss of his handsomeness – Tyelkormo grins at the thought, though the laugh is without mirth, for how could he truly find pleasure in his brother’s pain?).

Makalaurë is mourning as well, but what he mourns is a mystery of proportions. Perhaps he mourns losing the harp Mother had given him years ago – a silly thing to mourn, Tyelkormo thinks, but to each his own - , or perhaps he mourns losing his wife (though it has been so long since she died that Tyelkormo can hardly remember her name – something with an R, Rosie or Rianellë or something of the sort – it does not matter what her name was. All that matters is that she is dead and gone, yet Makalurë cannot seem to let her go).

Carnistir is, as always, angry. It would be funny, were it not for the fact that he still has morals – those ideas Mother had tried to instill in them: elves do not kill elves. Kinslaying is the worst crime of them all and so on and so forth. While Tyelkormo and Curufinwë both have learned to let go of that guilt – having already participated in one kinslaying, currently planning another; in such a situation guilt is hardly useful – but Carnistir still will not kill other elves if he can avoid it. And certainly not Dior, husband of their cousins’ daughter’s daughter (the relation is so obscure that just thinking about it, gives Tyelkormo a headache).

And Pityafinwë is... well. Pityafinwë has been broken for years. Ever since Losgar and the burning of the swanships. Truth be told, even Tyelkormo sometimes has nightmares about it, still. Sees the burning ships in his mind’s eye; thinks of Írissë across the water; thinks of realising that Telufinwë was missing; running to find him, scared, knowing the truth yet refusing to accept it. Oh, yes, he remembers Losgar. Pityafinwë has been but half a man since that night. And in him there is no remorse left, no guilt, no fear. But he also lacks will – he does not care for the Vow, he only longs for someone to end him. No, Pityafinwë does not support them, but he does not support Nelyo either.

In the end, of course, Curvo manages to convince them all that an attack on Dior Eluchíl, king of Doriath, grandson of Melian the Maia, is the best course of action. Curvo is the cleverest of them all, Tyelkormo thinks to himself, when they ready their, admittedly small and gaunt-looking, army outside the gates of Menegroth.

They break through the guards easily and then, at last, they’ve gained acces to the Glittering Caves of Thingol and Melian, which thus far have been forbidden them.

Tyelkormo throws himself into the battle with all his heart. His blood sings as he swings his sword and cleaves his foe’s head. It is glorious. The halls of Menegroth have deserved their name, he thinks, looking at the shining walls and the beautiful mosaics on the floor, now slippery with blood and covered in the bodies of fallen soldiers. The blood shines and the light of the lamp is reflected in the amour of the fallen. Tyelkormo laughs.

He swings his sword again, relishing the burn in his muscles, smiling through it all.

Another foe falls.

There is a lull in the battle around him then, and he turns around, trying to locate his brothers, see if one of them needs his help. The sight that greets him, makes him feeze.

Curvo is fighting Dior – and Tyelkormo feels very proud for a moment, watching them, his littlebrother is fast and nimble and seems to be winning – but then an arrow comes flying, seemingly out of nowhere and hits Curvos thigh. The bad thigh. The thigh he almost broke, when Beren Erchamion felled his horse all those years ago.

Curvo falls to his knees.

Dior kicks his shoulder, pushing him over. As Curvo falls to the ground, everything seems to slow down around Tyelkormo and he is frozen, can only watch, as Curvo seems to spit a few, disdainful words at Dior – Tyelkormo cannot hear what they are, though, judging from the way Dior’s beautiful face (and by Manwë, he looks just like his mother) twists in rage and he raises his spear, preparing to drive it into Curvo’s chest, Curvo has not lost his sharp tongue, though he is about to die.

The “NO!” rises unbidden from Tyelkormo’s throat but he is too far away and can only watch, as Curvo turns his head on the ground, meeting his eyes, stretching out his hand. His lips form a word, which Tyelkormo cannot hear, but will forever recognise the shape of.

“Tyelko...” Curvo is trying to say his name, but before he can finish, before Tyelkormo can react, Dior drives his spear down, into Curvo’s chest.

For a moment the slim, dark-haired form on the ground tenses; tears rise in his blue eyes; and then he goes limp, his out-stretched arm hitting the slick floor softly, as his eyes slid closed.

Tyelkormo lets out a cry of anger and, without pausing to think for even a second, he attacks Dior, with only one goal – to kill him.

They fight long and hard. They are evenly matched and at any other time Tyelkormo would relish the challenge but not now. Now he is angry and he wants to kill. And then he wants his ridiculous littlebrother to wake up and call him a fool and hit him over the head, like he always does.

At one point Tyelkormo sees a flash of dark hair in the corner of his eye and his attention is diverted, thinking that it is either Makalaurë or Carnistir come to help him. He turns his head, watches Carnistir fall to the ground, a sword sticking out of his chest, and his eyes burn with tears.

His attention is diverted for but a moment, but that moment is his doom, for Dior springs forth, spear at the ready, and catches Tyelkormo through the stomach.

For a moment they stand there, both breathing harshly, then Dior wrenches his spear free and Tyelkormo falls to his knees. Dior stands above him, raises his spear, but he hesitates and Tyelkormo takes his chance, gathers what’s left of his renowned strength and lunges.

His sword catches Dior’s throat and the son of Lúthien falls, dead before he hits the ground. Tyelkormo spares him hardly a glance as he crawls towards Curvo’s body, one hand pressed to the wound in his stomach, trying in vain to stop the flow of blood. He gathers Curvo into his trembling arms and reaches down to press a tender kiss to his forehead, strokes his face gently.

Around him the noise of the battle slowly fades to nothing, but he is unsure whether it is because he is dying or because the fighting is actually over. In truth, he hardly cares.

Just as he is about to close his eyes at last, he hears a shout and opens them again, slowly. Nelyafinwë is standing over him, tears in his eyes, his scarred face somehow more beautiful when he’s on the verge of tears than at any other time, suddenly worthy of his mothername again. Nelyo falls to his knees.

“Tyelko,” he murmurs, distraught, and Tyelkormo lets out a quiet huff of laughter.

“Do not cry, Nelyo,” he says, “we are not worth your tears, Curvo and I, you have said so often enough.”

“I lied,” whispers Nelyo, and now the tears are falling. He grips Tyelkormo’s hand tightly, and Tyelkormo allows it, something he would not even have considered, if he hadn’t been about to die.

“Shall I tell Atar you said hello?” he asks, gasps, coughs, tastes blood in his mouth and spits it out. The droplet lands with a wet sound on the stonefloor by his side. Nelyo nods shakily.

“Yes, Tyelko,” he says, “Please do that. And tell Mother I am sorry, when Námo lets you go someday.”

“Of course, Nelyo,” Tyelkormo smiles, there’s blood between his teeth, he’s sure of it, but he can barely hold his eyes open and he simply cannot bring himself to care. “I think,” he says, “I think, Nelyo, that I would like to close my eyes now. This one,” he pats Curvo’s hair, “is waiting for me, and he will want to give me a thorough verbal lashing for letting it take so long. Or perhaps for dying. You never know with him.”

“No,” Nelyo says, “you never do. Close your eyes, Tyelko. You can sleep now.” Tyelkormo closes his eyes and can feel his breathing even out. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he lets go of his body, sliding out of his head, and for the first time since he was with Oromë in te forest, perhaps for the first time ever, he feels completely free. He looks down upon the body of himself and his littlebrother. He sees Nelyo place a gentle kiss upon his brow, sees him and Makalaurë carry the unconscious, but not yet dead, Pityafinwë between them, runing from Doriath.

Only fleetingly does he feel a pang of disappointment whenhe realises that Dior did not have the Silmaril, that he must have given it to his daughter. It does not seem important though, as Tyelkormo feels himself fade and then materialise again in the halls of Námo. His father and three of his brothers are waiting for him; the youngest greets him with exuberant laughter – as happpy in death as he was in life –, the eldest grumbles something about favoritism (Tyelkormo assumes he is referring to not getting any kisses or goodbyes as he lay dying), while the third, his favourite, glares at him distastefully and hits him over the head for being ‘fool enough to die for me, Tyelko’.

Their father claps him on the back and says “you did well.” He sounds almost proud.

The spirit of Tyelkormo laughs.

Death is not so bad, after all.


End file.
